


discover the sky

by Rachelle_Lo



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bounty Hunters, Conspiracy, Dream Smp, Gen, Manhunt - Freeform, Minecraft Manhunt, Mystery, Realistic Minecraft, Rebellion, Video Game Mechanics, Wrongful Imprisonment, traps and tricks and outmaneuvering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachelle_Lo/pseuds/Rachelle_Lo
Summary: He knows, he knows, he knows what they do to traitors, buthe’s not a traitor and he didn’t do it and why is he being blamed for this—It takes only a second, and the damage is permanent. Just one touch to skin. Metal to his face.He’s branded forever.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Darryl Noveschosch, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Dream & badboyhalo
Comments: 106
Kudos: 622





	1. Chapter 1

He discovers the sky when he's in a prison cell.

Weak currents of air flow around the rock cracks of his cell walls. He feels it on his fingers as he sits in a corner. He can feel it flowing up, through the walls, through castle grounds, up to the freedom above.

Maybe because he's hurt, tired, thirsty, delirious with pain—maybe that's opened his mind. Whatever the reason for the timing, he feels the cool air, he breathes it, he desires the sky so much it hurts. So much his heart burns.

And he blinks, and he's above ground on damp grass. 

And when he realizes the impossible has happened, he runs.

* * *

_Two years later_

These hunters are better than most. Persistent. It’s been nearly two months and he hasn’t managed to lose them.

 _Fraying my last nerve,_ he thinks, jumping over a river through the interconnected trees. He hasn’t been able to breathe easy for weeks. Each time he thinks he’s safe, that he’s lost them, they reappear like a rash. He’s lost sleep. The weeks haven’t been kind to him; usually he would have some security this deep into the wildlands, but they’ve unerringly found him over and over.

He’s wanted dead or alive, but the bounty for ‘alive’ is higher. Not that being brought to the king is a kinder fate. 

The hunters are stubbornly on his trail. It’s not like he’s quiet jumping through trees, and the spring leaves in the trees haven’t grown enough to hide him.

“ _There he is!_ ” one shouts behind him. “We see you! There’s nowhere to hide, Dream—just turn yourself in—” 

They’re trying to make him panic.

He won’t admit it’s working—the adrenaline and fluttering panic burn his nerves—but no, it’s fine, he _knows_ this path. There’s an overhang over a ravine ahead. A quick plan forms in his head.

“He’s on the ground, he’s on the ground!”

His feet thumping on earth. Dream sees the cliff edge ahead. He spares a glance behind.

Three hunters. One in a hood with a sword, one in goggles with a bow, one in a headband and an axe. One readies a crossbow.

Dream turns around and steps off the edge.

His hands slide across the cliff’s lip as he fights to hold on until the last second. His nails flip and bend under rocks. 

Scrabbling, sliding, he tries to angle his body forward as his feet dangle over a terrifying void. The weight and momentum are enough to send him rolling across the secured cave hidden beneath.

Dream winces, carefully flexing his hands. The skin’s broken around some nails.

Crouching, silent, he strains to listen for his pursuers.

“Did he jump? I saw him jump.”

“He can’t have.”

“No, he must be down there somewhere. He was a high guard, right, so they’re trained in stealth stuff.”

“Right, they’re like literally little—little tree frogs on a wall. Is he just hanging on to the side somewhere?”

“I can’t see him down there. There aren’t enough trees, leaves, _things_ for him to hide in down there. My scopes can’t see anything.” Was that the goggles hunter?

“Okay, just look at the _compass,_ stop wasting _time—_ ” 

Compass?

Dream’s hands press against the edges of his mask, a nervous tic. They have an enchanted _compass?_ They’re sent directly by the king, then. They probably want him dead, then, even if the bounty’s higher for being taken in alive. The king might have wanted him brought in alive, once, but after this much time and so many failed attempts the king likely wants to tie off loose ends and be done with it.

“Look, guys,” Dream faintly hears, “he’s definitely below us. It spins in a circle over this spot.”

_I need to leave._

If he leaves the mineshaft, the hunters can pick him off with arrows. If he goes deeper into the tunnels, he has to fight off creatures that want to eat his flesh in the dark.

He goes into the tunnel.

* * *

The mineshaft is a goldmine, no pun intended. There are scattered chests filled with food, torches, and enchanted items. There’s a flint and steel that he uses to light one torch. He even finds a golden apple among the preserved bread.

There’s also a nice iron sword and leather sheath. Dream wraps it a few times in spare cloth and it doesn’t _clink_ when he walks.

 _Okay, so they have an enchanted compass,_ he thinks, _but that won’t be much help in a maze. I can lose them in here, spend the night._

The mineshafts plunge dangerously deep as Dream walks for a few hours. He’s not worried about getting lost, though. Some innate instinct has always told him where to go to find the sky. He can follow the air current seeping through the rocks and find another exit; he’s not too worried about that. The hunters are the bigger problem, and hopefully they won’t be stupid enough (brave enough) to venture so far in.

His energy’s flagging. His innate clock says that it’s time to sleep; he’s been running through the day.

He finds a natural alcove and spends half an hour piling dirt, rocks, and wood in front of it to keep out monsters. He’s left with a tomb-sized cozy bedspace.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” he mouths to himself. “It’s like a bedroom. You haven’t had a bedroom in a long time. Enjoy the luxury. And look! Pillows!” He pats his pack. Wheezing a bit at his own meager humor, he settles to sleep for a few hours. 

* * *

Dream wakes in a panic at being enclosed in a small, dark space. He gets over it quickly and tears down the protective wall.

He sniffs out an exit quickly. The light is barely breaking, and it blinds him for a moment. He steps off a rock and his feet sink into something.

Dream looks down in shock. It’s cobweb. He’s walked into cobweb.

It’s been carefully wrapped and stretched across two sturdy sticks out of his reach. 

They’d laid a trap.

_They’d laid a trap._

He’s so _stupid,_ of course they could see the other mineshaft exits! The ravine didn’t hide them at all! Had they trapped every single entrance?

 _They must have used branches to gather the webs,_ part of his brain notes, absorbing the new trick. _They can’t’ve used their hands._

Dream’s hands are still free, and he looks around frantically for anything to get him out. He doesn’t see any hunters, but the ravine is exposed and if they’ve laid a trap then they’re watching for him—

He pulls out the iron sword and starts hacking.

It’s obscenely slow.

 _“It’s him!”_ he hears from a distance. 

They’re on top of a cliff face at the distant end of the ravine. They must have camped atop for the night.

“Hah, he’s stuck! It worked!” one laughs. Dream growls under his breath.

“We’ve got to hurry, you muffinheads, where’s the rope to get down—”

Dream tugs at his leg. There’s barely any give.

 _Not like this. I can’t die like this,_ he thinks, _not to a cobweb trick!_

“Keep your bow on him, George! Hey _you!_ Don’t move or we shoot!” Headband yells.

Dream ignores them, continuing to saw at the threads. Dead now or dead later, what’s the difference?

An arrow hits the ground by his leg. Dream grabs it to hack at his other leg. He’s made some progress.

The next arrow hits his shoulder at the joint of his arm. He whites out for a moment, coming to staring at his partially freed leg. 

“I said _stop!_ ” the archer orders.

The other two have scaled down the side using rope. Dream can barely see them now that they’re on the ground.

His leg is almost free. Frantically, he pulls out the flint and steel and lights the end of the trap. It blazes up immediately, making the hunters shout in alarm. Hopefully it obscures him or confuses them enough to thwart another arrow shot.

He gives another tug and nearly cries in relief when his leg is free. The fire’s licking at him.

Dream scrambles up and darts back into the safety of the mineshaft.

* * *

The echoes are loud. He can hear nearly everything the hunters are saying. 

“I thought you said your bow was on him!”

“It _was!_ I shot at him twice. He’s got an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, you can check. He just kept going anyway.”

“Crazy son of a—”

“Watch it! It’s fine, guys, we’re close enough now. Look at the compass.”

They’re close enough that Dream can’t lose them in the maze. The compass tells them which immediate path he went down—besides that, they can probably hear his footsteps and muffled gasps.

His luck runs out.

It’s a dead end. His eyes dart around frantically, looking for tunnels above or below he can use. It’s no use; it’s purely stone, no wooden floors, no smaller tunnels to crawl through.

Dream spins, pulling out the sword.

They have him cornered in a half-circle.

He backs up until he hits the wall.

It’s a standoff.

“Are you Dream?” one asks. He’s wearing a heavy hood that shrouds most of his face.

Dream stares back, mind racing. He knows his mask is unsettling. It’s part of the appeal. He doesn’t have to say a word.

“We don’t want the wrong guy, okay? So if you’re _not_ Dream, just take off your mask so we know.”

Beneath the mask, the brand on his face gives a painful twinge. There is no way in hell he’s taking off the mask. The brand is more identifying than the mask.

“Really, Bad?” Headband mutters. “It’s him. There’s no way it’s not.”

“Okay, well, we just have to be sure. If you don’t take off your mask, sir, then we’re taking that as a yes.” The tone is odd: it’s like a teacher scolding a kid.

Dream sank further into a crouch.

“Lucky for you, buddy, we take alive bounties,” the one with the headband says. “So put down that sword and we’ll take you back.”

The archer readies a crossbow at Dream’s chest. “You have five seconds,” he says flatly. 

Dream doesn’t wait for it. He moves.

Jumping to the side, he runs up a wall and uses the momentum to swing at Headband. His jump puts the hunter between Dream and the archer, who can’t shoot without hitting his friend. Dream’s sword hits another’s with a _clash,_ and he darts back, missing Hood’s swing, to race down the tunnel.

“He juked us!”

An arrow shoots after him, barely missing his thigh. 

_I’m fast, I can make it._ Dream sees daylight ahead. He can get out, run further into the ravine to where it opened into heavy forest—

There’s a sound of glass breaking, and suddenly Dream’s legs collapse beneath him. Pain like fire races up through his legs, then every nerve is dead, his body limp. The wood of his mask slams into his lip, and he tastes blood.

 _“Got him,”_ Dream hears. It’s Hood.

“Holy crap, Bad, what was that? _”_ Headband asked incredulously. “Was that a potion?”

“Splash potion. It’s rare.”

“Well, it worked,” the archer says with grim satisfaction. The voices are closer. 

Footsteps thud closer until the vibrations are right next to Dream’s head, while he struggles to get his numb body to respond. He can feel little bursts of sensation at the ends of his fingertips, but that’s it. It’s too late—his hands are being shoved behind his back and tied. 

“We’re taking you in for the prince’s death,” Hood says with authority, standing over him. “I think the kingdom needs some answers.”

* * *

_Before_

“As I thought,” the evoker says, his fingers leaving Dream’s chest. “He’s one of the rarest Touched. This is quite a find.”

‘This’ doesn’t have enough strength to speak. His chest rises and falls with painful effort.

“Your contributions will be valuable for the kingdom. You can rest easy knowing that you will help far more people than you’ve killed.”

The man’s voice is oily and so, so fake, spouting righteous propaganda like Dream should drink it up gratefully. He sees the look Dream’s giving him and his lips twitch with mild amusement.

“No, no, you’re not going to _rest_ anytime soon, not to worry. You’re worth far more alive than dead.”

When they began to touch his eyes and paint on runes that will later be cut into his skin, that soon becomes precisely what Dream is afraid of.

He knows, he knows, he knows what they do to traitors, but he’s _not a traitor and he didn’t do it and why is he being blamed for this—_

It takes only a second, and the damage is permanent. Just one touch to skin. Metal to his face.

He’s branded forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, falling for block men lore and having illegal amounts of fun with it. Hope you enjoyed, and please rec any other manhunt-type fics!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all for the warm welcome!

The tips of his fingers are starting to have some sensation back. The nerves are sparking uncomfortably, but at least the effects are wearing off, if slowly.

The hunters thoroughly truss him and tie him to a tree. The sun is rising, light peeking through the holes in his mask, and it’s growing uncomfortably hot.

“We need to make sure it’s him first,” the hooded swordsman says. “We’ll have to take off the mask.”

“Alright, let’s see it,” Headband says with false cheer.

Dream really doesn’t want this. Hands reach for his face.

Cold air kisses his naked face. The skin under the brand doesn’t feel it, nerves burnt away. It’s a hideous mark, off-center, covering an eye, his forehead, the bridge of his nose, and the stretch from lip to ear. It partially ruined the sight in his left eye, scar tissue obscuring his peripherals. The rune marks him as _traitor._

“It’s him,” headband says. “Wow, you’re ugly.”

Dream levels him a glare. _He’s_ not, the rune is.

“Why did you do it, you green _barlt_?” the archer says. His eyes are hard as he carefully cleans his crossbow. “Who paid you off?”

Dream doesn’t say a word. He can’t.

“Answer my question,” the archer says, ignoring his companion, “and I’ll dress your wound.”

“George,” the swordsman murmurs.

The arrow wound in his shoulder still has the shaft sticking out, and it’s bleeding more heavily after being tackled and tied.

Dream breathes out—apparently his wound won’t be dressed, because they will never believe him. He can’t even speak. He ducked his head and shook it slightly, already closing his eyes for the violence to come.

“No? _No?_ Covering for your employer?” the archer says coolly. 

“He was the _last prince,”_ Headband snaps. “You dirty bastard, he was the only one keeping this country together and away from that madman and you _killed him_ —”

Dream’s heart clenches painfully in his chest.

“Give us the name of your employer,” the archer continues, “and we’ll be much more inclined to keep you alive.” 

Dream huffs a silent laugh into his knees. Yes, that’s the problem here.

The hooded swordsman seems unbothered by the conversation, physically distancing himself from the group as he searches through a pack. He draws out materials and comes back, and, unexpectedly, he crouches by Dream to observe his wounded shoulder. 

“No, don’t heal him, Bad. What are you doing?”

“Even if we don’t like him, we have to bandage him up,” the swordsman says, lightly touching the area around the arrow shaft. Dream fights not to let the spiking pain show on his face. “It’s common decency.”

“Yeah, common decency he doesn’t have. You’re too nice, Bad.”

“I’m in the middle of an interrogation,” the archer says, making an annoyed hand gesture.

“Well, it’s not really going anywhere right at this second. Let me get him ready to walk, and you can interrogate him on the way back, how about that?” The swordsman—Bad—waits patiently for the archer to reply.

The archer huffs and says, “I’ll go find the horse.”

“Great!” The swordsman turns back to Dream. “I’m going to get you something to bite down on, then we’ll get this out.”

Dream shakes his head. He doesn’t want anything in his mouth, and it’s not as if he could make noise.

“No? Really? Okay, then. Let’s do this quick.”

To his credit, Bad is professional and quick about the procedure, carefully pulling apart the fabric, examining the angle of entry, and rubbing in a salve around the cut. The tug is firm and fast.

A long wheeze comes out between Dream’s teeth, but other than that he doesn’t make a sound.

Despite the radiating pain, it doesn’t feel like the arrowhead ripped up new damage on the way out. _That’s a silver lining, at least,_ he tells himself, eyes on the clouds above. 

“Okay, tough guy. We’re headed out when George gets back.”

Dream doesn’t feel very tough. His entire arm throbs, and he’s lightheaded and dizzy.

The archer—George—returns with a dark-dappled horse, and they pack up quickly while Dream tries to blink back the vertigo.

For a moment, when Headband hauls him to his feet, he worries he’ll topple over, but he regains his balance. The archer holds a crossbow on him while Bad and Headband untie and retie Dream’s hands to the front of his body. His wrists are attached by rope to the horse pack. 

The mask lies in the grass, white among green. He makes an aborted movement toward it.

“What are you—oh, the mask? Yeah, let’s hide that face.” Headband grabs the mask and slips it haphazardly onto Dream’s face, forcing Dream to scrunch his nose discreetly afterward when he’s turned away to try to adjust its place.

Bad lead the horse while the other two flanked him at the back, their eyes burning at his neck every so often.

They’ve been oddly civil throughout this, especially for bounty hunters sent by the king. He hasn’t been beaten or insulted too badly. They’ve even bandaged his arm.

“So, we know your code name is Dream,” the hooded swordsman begins. “I’m Bad, and they’re George and Sapnap.”

“Why are you telling him our names, Bad?”

“Well, I think he should know our names.”

“So he’ll remember them in prison? So he can look back on the good times?”

Dream snorts, despite himself.

“Oh, you think that’s _funny?”_ the archer mutters.

Dream shakes his head to himself. It _is_ funny, for two reasons: one, he probably wouldn’t be in prison for two long, ‘cause he’d be executed soon with fanfare, and two, the conversation is the most hilariously _normal_ he’s recently heard in his two years of hiding from human civilization. Maybe the lack of exposure has lowered his standards. 

“ _Anyway,”_ Bad continues, “do you have another name, a real name?”

Dream shrugs, a tilt of his head.

“Hm. Are you from L’Man originally, or from Berg?”

Dream looks up at the canopy and shrugs again. 

“Okay,” Bad said slowly. “Are you ever going to say anything?”

He shook his head, mouth twitching behind the mask.

“Is this some sort of sick bounty hunter bro code? Never sell out the employer?” Sapnap asks in annoyance. “He hasn’t said anything.” 

“Let me try!” the archer says with a cheerfulness that instantly puts Dream on edge. His response is justified when he feels the tip of an arrow prod his spine, sending a cool shiver up back. “Tell me who your employer was, or I’ll skewer you and drag you to the castle.”

Dream hears the hooded swordsman sigh loudly from the front. He lifts his tied hands in a sort of supplication and shakes his head slowly, sweat gathering on his suddenly cold forehead.

(If he were to be shot, he’d bleed out, or his death would be slow as infection set into his organs, and he’d be in constant pain until he reached the castle dungeons.)

“Or there was no employer? You did it because you wanted to? That’s almost worse. Why would that be? Because the prince was one of the Touched? Because you’re Bergian? You just wanted to cause some chaos? I’m getting tired of this.” The archer shoved the point forward, hard enough that Dream feels the tip pierce the cloth.

Dream shakes his head again, jerkily raising his hands to his mouth.

“Wait.” Bad turns around to stare at him. “You can’t talk?”

Dream flexes and withdraws his fingers in Bad’s direction.

The swordsman pushes back his hood slightly, revealing slit eyes that observe Dream head to toe. “Well I guess that makes sense,” he says finally, turning back to the path ahead. 

“’That makes sense’?” the archer mutters, but he removes the crossbow, letting Dream’s lungs expand again. “I’ll leave it for now, but we’ll talk at camp.”

The day flows by in an oddly calm manner; Dream’s tied and caught and walking to his death, but the walking pattern and swaying of trees send him into a travel trance where the hours seamlessly flow. After several hours of silence, the hunters grow accustomed to his presence and begin to chat among themselves.

There’s nothing important to be gleaned from the conversations; it’s all about weaponry, about builds, or about the best routes to take.

(They’re taking the most direct path back to the castle, it sounds like. Fortunately, Dream is extremely far so there should be at least a week of traveling if they continue walking.) 

Night falls, and Dream’s been thinking all day of how to get away, but there’s no opportunity. There’s three of them, two pairs of eyes on him, and he’s been fiddling with his restraints all day but there’s no give. Nighttime will likely be his best bet. 

Dream blinks. He’d seen a glimmer in the distance.

A few blocks closer, and a black structure comes into view. It’s shaped like a broken rune with stone steps leading up to it.

“A ruined portal!” the swordsman calls, excited. They stop and spend a few minutes examining the ancient structure. Bad scribbles down something in a journal, and Sapnap stays close, while Dream stares at the jagged edges of the obsidian rock. Would it be sharp enough to cut his rope?

The swordsman snaps his journal shut, and they continue.

Dream was half-worried that the hunters would force him to walk through the night (which he could have done but really didn’t want to with his hands tied and balance off) but when the sun is near the horizon they set up camp.

And, when the hunters have lit the fire and tended the horse, their attention returns to Dream. When one speaks directly to him for the first time in hours, Dream’s heart sinks.

“So can you not talk at all, or is this a job confidentiality thing?” Headband, Sapnap, asks with an arched brow. “’On my honor I do not sell out my clients?’”

Dream doesn’t move. They’re going to start the questions soon, then. And when he doesn’t answer, they’ll snap. His body is already tensing in anticipation.

Sapnap stares at him, Dream staring back, before scowling. “Alright, the mask is coming off if you’re just going to stare at me with that creepy thing—” When Sapnap’s hand stretches out, Dream flinches back.

The hunter actually pauses. The hesitation only lasts a second, though, before the mask is being lifted from Dream’s face.

“Man to man, eye to eye,” Sapnap says, crouching down. “Who paid you to murder him?”

Dream avoids the hunter’s eyes, helplessness rising in his throat.

“Okay,” he says, frustration making his throat growl a bit, “let’s start easier. _Did_ someone pay you to kill him?”

Dream’s eyes snap up. That’s a new question. Slowly, already knowing how this will end, he shakes his head.

“You did it for free?” Sapnap says. “You’re cheap, good to know.”

Dream rolls his eyes despite himself.

The archer, who has been watching the exchange, stops polishing his crossbow. “You should share what you know,” he drawls coldly. “It could help with your future sentence, and how useful you are alive.”

The brand itches on his skin.

There’s a lot Dream could say to that, but he knows it’s pointless when he can’t speak. Dream doesn’t answer any other questions, even when the archer grows frustrated enough to grab Dream by his hood and drag his face closer and the hooded swordsman intervenes. Bad hands out small, hardened scones to each person, even giving Dream one to gnaw on. It’s a courtesy Dream didn’t expect. 

The archer takes the first watch that night.

Dream’s used to sleeping in small spaces, usually treetops, so it isn’t too uncomfortable to curl on his side with his bound hands in front of him. He keeps the injured shoulder off the ground while he looks up at the stars.

He doesn’t sleep.

He thinks about two years ago.

 _What did that feel like?_ he thinks, stretching his memory. _Pain, dark, fear, hoping. My chest burned and then felt so cold. I wanted out._ It’s an imperfect art. He’s only managed the trick once or twice through sheer panic. 

_I want to be free. I want to be under a free sky._

It doesn’t work. Straining and wishing like a sober poet does nothing. His body is still solidly on the ground, near the fire, tethered to a log.

Dream sighs into the grass.

 _Even if I do escape right now, they’ll find me with the compass._ Compasses were rare and could be calibrated to a specific target with enough enchantments and certain rare items only the wealthy possessed, like the king. If he could destroy this one…it would buy him time to get further away while they had to replace it. He would be safe for a few weeks, at least.

An image of the broken portal jumps to his mind.

_Would the compass even work in a new dimension, or between dimensions?_

A thrill of energy sparks in his chest. That’s where he wants to go. The broken portal.

His chest burns and then goes cold. Wet tall grass sticks to his arms. Sitting up in a dark field, he sees the moonlight glint off obsidian.

His arms are shaking and he’s lightheaded and nauseous, but he grins.

* * *

_Before_

Only a few fond memories of his childhood survive.

They’re so distant that he wonders if they’re real at all, or if they’re only wishes pretending at memories.

He remembers holding an armful of grain after a person—a woman—put them in his arms after the threshing. He liked the feeling of the grain on his arms. He’d carried it around all day, and he thinks, he thinks that that made the woman laugh. _My little blessing,_ she’d said, or was it _you blessing?_ Was her voice real at all?

There’s warmth, and a campfire, and someone holding him, wrapping him in a blanket. Stars shine overhead.

Far outnumbering these are blurred memories of shouts, and hunger, and loud sounds. The war between L’Man and Berg had rent the nation when Dream was young, after all, and he’d likely been orphaned or abandoned in it, like so many others.

The war had lasted so long that he’d grown old enough to fight in it, in fact.

He’s small, fast, and stealthy, and he needs food. The army needs message runners. It works. He spends years flitting between battles and skirting soldiers’ campfires, accepting food for message-work, sleeping at the odd edges of war camps and taverns.

The war ends.

(The country is relieved—or resigned—for the end of the war, but no war means that Dream is on the streets again.)

After a few years, his body stretches enough to feasibly let him lie about his age, and he properly joins the army and begins training in earnest for a soldier’s salary. He knows there’s food there—and, really, what else does he know how to do for an occupation?

A sword feels natural in his hand. He learns quickly.

He learns to kill.

He becomes good. He becomes _very_ good. He’s promoted. Despite his age, he frequently sends taller opponents into the dirt. 

He’s recruited for the high guard.

Besides, well, _guarding,_ high guards train in stealth, tracking, and information. They’re taught how to handle small knives and subtle poisons. They’re sent to retrieve targets and bring them back to the dungeons for interrogation. Most importantly, high guards live in the warmth of the castle barracks and are given education. Dream is taught in earnest for the first time in his life. His letters improve, he learns how to mark maps and coordinates, and he reads about sciences he’d never known existed. (He particularly loves reading about the secret maps the stars tell to those who learn their language.)

He catches the eye of high people.

While sparring in the yard, he feels eyes on him. Looking up to the high walls, he sees a flash of blue and yellow. The prince is looking at him, mouth curved slightly.

Dream sends his opponent into the dirt, then turns and bows shortly to the royal.

Wil’s smile stretches wider, then he turns and walks away.

Dream becomes a part of Prince Wil’s guard soon after.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments have been so kind, thank you!

Once the nausea fades, Dream sits up awkwardly with bound hands.

Obviously, the portal is ruined. A chunk is missing from the lower left quadrant, and Dream has nothing to light it with. If he’s lucky, though…

He scratches at the dirt at the base of the purple stone. There’s a stick nearby, and he uses that to scrape away the mud. The spirits are kind; he stick hits a wooden chest with a _thunk_ a few feet down. Inside there are golden bracers, bread who knows how old, and a flint-and-steel.

The end of the steel is sharp enough that he can saw through the ropes with it. He accidentally lights himself up once, but the damp grass is enough to beat it out.

Free at last, he trails his fingers along the edges of the portal. The centermost frame of the portal is still intact, but chunks are missing from the outer edges.

 _It’s humming,_ he notes with some surprise. _It’s as if it’s alive._

The first attempt to light it with flint-and-steel fails. On closer inspection, Dream finds a small groove running through the center frame blocks, and on the left side the portal has eroded until the groove is smooth.

 _If I can re-carve it, it might work…_ Dream stops. Does he need to go through? He’s far enough away that he could get a decent head start before the hunters come after him. _All my supplies are still at the camp, and the nether is dangerous. All I have is a flint-and-steel and golden bracers._

He hesitates.

The portal hums under his palm.

No. No, he’ll have to go. The hunters have the compass. _It won’t work in the nether, and I’ll need every advantage I can get._ And, he quietly admits to himself, he’d prefer to face the monsters of that realm than the humans in this one.

Mind set, he begins to carve.

It takes nearly an hour, by his reckoning. He’s fortunate that no rotting creatures came after him while he worked. When the groove is finished, he sends a small prayer and lights it. The faint humming swells into a dull roar as the portal flickers to life.

Per his truly stellar luck, when the portal light begins to shine, he hears distant voices through the trees. 

_“I see light! What—he’s going through the portal!”_

_“Don’t let him get through!”_

He can’t see them, but he can hear them—crashing brush and wet slapping grass. With an odd sense of pride, Dream dives into the portal.

The nether is hot. Even through his boots he can feel the heat through his soles.

_I need some distance._

Jumping from stone tower to stone face, he quickly gains altitude and distance from the portal. Hopefully he can find a good perch to scout the land. Breathless, he finds a small alcove to rest in that gives him a distant view of the portal. Dream settles his breathing and takes a minute to rest.

The hunters come through, two with furious expressions and the hooded one holding a glowing compass.

Above, Dream peeks over the rim. He’s too far to hear what they’re saying, but he can see their body language.

The hooded one makes furious gestures at the compass, waving it around and looking at it intently.

A slow smile spreads under the mask. As far as Dream can tell, the compass is spinning wildly in circles. He’s undetectable here.

The hunters don’t leave to look for him, likely knowing how low the chances of catching him are. Instead, they set up camp at the edge of the portal, sending Headband back to overworld. Are they camping the portal?

 _If I want to get back to the overworld, I’ll have to come back through this portal. Unless I can find another one…_ Dream bites his lip, then shakes the thought out of his mind. _That’s a problem for later._

He slips away, climbing higher. He needs supplies before he dies to mobs.

* * *

His shoes are melting. He wasn’t sure, before, if his feet were just sinking into the dark ground or if the soles were melting, but now he can smell them melting. It’s that hellishly hot.

It’s been slow going. There are a few undead lumbering in the distance, but they don’t react to his presence, unlike the undead of the overworld. It’s a welcome change, not having to avoid zombie teeth.

There’s a dark landmark in the distance. Through the haze that permeates the Nether, he can make out black stone. It looks like a fortress.

In all his education as a high guard, he’d never read anything on the Nether. The king had banned all literature concerning the other realms and destroyed all the portals before Dream had gone into service. After the great rot, or sickness, or whatever it was that spread from the other realms and caused the undead to rise, the king had had all portals destroyed in an effort to stop the spread. Apparently it had somewhat reduced the amount of creatures scratching at every city’s gates at night. One person coming through shouldn’t raise it too much, especially if the hunters were guarding the entrance.

Coming here is probably a death sentence, or heresy.

 _Which I don’t care about at this point!_ he whistles to himself. It’s not like two counts of a death sentence makes much of a difference. 

The fortress—more a bastion, now that he’s closer—isn’t as hot as the nether floor. Somehow the stones don’t conduct the heat.

It looks abandoned, but as he carefully navigates around broken stone pillars, he thinks he can feel eyes on him.

 _What’s this?_ He spots a bit of brown, out of place among the black. It’s a chest.

Dream nearly cries when he sees the supplies inside. There’s so _much._ After escaping the hunters, he’d lost all of his gear. He’d worried, walking through the desolate realm, that there was nothing he could scavenge to eat, but _this_ is much more than he could have hoped for.

There are good iron boots inside, which he immediately switches out for his half-melted leather ones; there’s bread and a few gold-tinted apples; there’s a flask of some liquid; and there are several books that gleam gently in the light. 

It’s a great haul, and Dream should be grateful, but there’s no _water._ Aside from the mystery liquid, there’s nothing here that would be safe to drink. He can survive longer without food, but water is a necessity.

Dream cracks open one of the books.

 _These are potion recipes,_ he thinks in amazement. Potions are notoriously rare and difficult to obtain, most being heirlooms from the era when the portals were open. Reading this, it makes sense—these ingredients could likely only be found in the Nether.

 _Maybe…_ He carefully flips through the book. _I can make potions that are safe to drink?_ There’s no water here, clearly, but if the book can tell him which plants are safe to crush…

Dream finds another chest. This one contains a satchel that is mostly intact save for a hole in the top, some more bread, another bottle, and a map. There’s also an iron chest plate but it’s too large for him.

The map isn’t written in a language he knows, but it clearly marks a trail toward another monument. He recognizes some of the landmarks nearby, so he’ll know where to start at least.

Taking a break, he sits on a broken stone and eats the old bread. It only makes his mouth drier.

He has two bottles of mystery liquid. Maybe they’re potions and safe to drink? Flipping through the other books, he finds that one is a potion book. The ancient language is mostly gibberish, with only a few familiar words few and far between, but there are some pictures.

 _Maybe I can identify what kind these are?_ he wonders. Part of him is squeamish thinking of how old it might be, but then again, he’s eating the bread. Maybe it’s wine and better with age.

Dream holds the first glass up to his face, squinting at the color of the potion and comparing it to the color in the book. He’s mostly, fairly, maybe sure that it’s a fire resistance potion.

He holds the second up to his eye and recoils when an _enormous purple eye stares out of the liquid._

The bottle nearly crashes on stone.

“I did not expect that today,” he wheezes soundlessly to himself. “Okay. It’s a potion ingredient, probably.”

It takes a minute to recover.

Taking a small sip of the fire resistance, and not immediately dropping dead, he sets off to the fortress marked on the map.

* * *

He’s found weird red bulbous plants that he can crush into liquid, and he’s found other ingredients in the fortress’ chests. Luck smiled on him and he found a bow that he used to kill a black skeleton and take its iron sword.

There are also annoying creatures that spew flame. Dream found them before he found the shield in another chest, so there were a few minutes of undignified frantic running and dodging.

Decked out in weaponry, holding all the ingredients the book says he needs, Dream’s feeling more confident than he has in a while. He’s ready to make some illegal potions.

Six potions later, he heads back across the treacherous terrain to the bastion.

* * *

_Before_

* * *

“I chose you because there’s a certain spark to you,” the prince says. “The way you move when you fight—it’s poetry in motion, truly. You move so quickly it’s almost as if you leap into being where you meant to go. And,” the prince adds, with a little hand movement, “we’re closer in age than most of the guards, so I think we’ll get on nicely.” 

Dream nods stiffly, and Wilbur laughs.

“You’re allowed to respond, you know. I’m not here to monologue.”

“Yes,” Dream says slowly.

“We’ll work on that.”

Being a member of the prince’s guard involves a lot of standing and waiting. It’s a strange new routine, being a stationed guard, functioning as part of security, and especially being requested on the prince’s whim. Even more strange about the experience is Prince Wilbur _talks._ Excessively. To Dream, and though Dream doesn’t respond with much, he keeps leaving spaces and questions in the conversation for Dream to insert himself if he wants.

The prince seems determined not to let Dream sink invisibly into the background, which is the _complete opposite_ of his job. Why choose a high guard specializing in stealth otherwise?

It's a sweltering day when Dream takes his shift by the prince. He's sweating a bit under his armor. 

“It’s a wretched day. Would you like some water?" Wilbur asks cordially. "Have some blue.”

The prince hums and makes a scooping gesture with his arm. His fingers never touch the glass, but the water flows out of the pitcher and into the cup with only a few drops spilled.

“Ah. Sorry about that. Spilled a bit. I’m a bit out of practice.”

Dream hesitates. 

The prince sees his face and laughs a little. “Go on, take it! It’s just water. Perfectly safe. Though I suppose that’s a bit mean of me, considering the ban. I am one of the Touched, if you couldn’t tell.”

That fact doesn’t bother Dream as much as the fact that Wilbur is blatantly violating the king’s ban in the king’s own castle.

“I think you know the story already, but indulge me if I tell it again? It’s been too long since I’ve spoken about it. Everyone’s walking on fragile glass.” The prince whirls around pushes the cup toward Dream. “Go on, drink it! I promise you won’t be executed if you do.” He says it like it's a joke, being considered for execution. For him it probably is. 

Dream takes it. The water tastes normal.

The prince settles back, his eyes drifting over to the window.

“I was sea-blessed. Sea-Touched, you could call it. It’s not really a dangerous blessing. My singing and my voice are as soothing as the ocean waves, so I’ve been told.” He exaggerates a lilt to his voice. “As the first child of the queen, she chose who would bless me, and she chose to forge a connection with the ocean. And, yes, my mother was human,” he adds a bit drily, rolling his eyes at some rumor he remembered. “I wasn’t a bastard. Before, the royalty of old sought connections with spirits and solicited blessings for each child. I was given to the sea guardians.”

The prince is talking aloud to himself, softly reciting the tale as if to keep it alive.

“And so the first prince of L’Man was kept for one night below the water, given rare potions to breathe for hours. The guardians presented me to the heart of the sea, a pearl, pressing the blessings of the sea into my malleable heart. The kingdom received blessings, and the guardians received respect and trust to handle the queen’s child. It was a relationship forged on one child’s safety as per tradition. 

“So, I can hear the sea calling. And I can pour water without touching it. Not much of a terrifying gift.” He rolls his eyes. “Not many blessings were, to be honest…

“My youngest brother—he was presented to the spirits of the fields and the flowers and growing things. He was left for a day in the gardens of the field. We found him nuzzled by bees in the morning, which was a sign that the harvest spirits were pleased. 

“And then, well, the spirits went mad as the Rot spread, but that’s an entirely different tale…No, it’s not talked about much, spirit-blessings. There aren’t many left after the war, and the practice has been strictly banned for some time, but I’m a bit too important to punish. To kill, if we’re being honest.

“The _really ‘_ dangerous’ ones are all rounded up and accounted for anyway.” He waves a hand. “Not that there were too many left after our war. It’s a bit of a dying art, blessings, and people just aren’t too comfortable with evil blood rituals around babies nowadays…

“Anyway, I’m rambling. So, that’s why I’m locked up here, far, far away from the sea.”

“Do you remember your blessing?” Dream asks, curiosity overwhelming. “It didn’t hurt you?”

Wilbur blinks, apparently surprised Dream had spoken at all, then shakes his head with soft smile. “No, it didn’t hurt. I have the barest flashes of memory of it, but none of pain.”

Dream nods. 

“That’s all you’re going to ask?” he asks lightly. Amusement crinkles his eyes. “Nothing about human sacrifice or dismemberment or whatever they go on about nowadays? I have all my fingers and toes, as you can see.” He stretches out his long fingers.

Dream shifts on his feet, unsure of how to respond. Wilbur laughs. 

“Why am I telling you this? Well I think you probably know.” Pause. “Or maybe you don’t,” he says, softer. “Come into the shade. I won’t distract you from your duties further.”

Except that is such a lie, because every quarter hour Wilbur asks some question or another, and Dream gives up information about himself that no one cared to know before, about his memories, his childhood, his lack of family. 

The hours move quickly on, and near the end of Dream’s shift, the prince pulls out his guitar and begins to hum. Softly, he sings,

_I heard there was a special place_

_Where men could go, be safe,_

_To escape the brutality, and tyranny, of our neighbors._

Dream’s eyes go wide, darting to the prince. _That’s so blatantly treasonous,_ he thinks a little faintly. This definitely tops the prince's oversharing of his family history. Wilbur doesn’t react to the words coming from his own mouth as he continues to strum his guitar and calmly look over the garden.

Once, L’Manberg had been two countries, and then there was a war started by mutual accusations. The king, the queen, and the younger prince of L’Man had fallen, leaving only Prince Wilbur. The solitary royal, the poet prince, had surrendered soon after to Berg’s king, Orias Thorn.

A few called Wilbur the traitor prince for folding so quickly. Most understood that the war was long, the Bergians brutal, and L’Man could not have won the fight. Of the royals, Wilbur was the least combat-skilled; his strength lay in negotiation. He would have made a beautiful martyr, but the kingdom needed him alive.

In his mercy, King Thorn allowed Wilbur to remain at the L’Man castle with him, life contingent on the new king’s will.

 _A new era,_ the proclamation announced, _of peace, of prosperity, of renewed order after years of war._

The prince likely fought the edicts, as portal after portal were destroyed, the blessed and Touched rounded up and ‘detained’, the walls built ever higher for the people’s safety. (Always for the _people,_ everything justified to combat the Rot that raised the dead.) But words, even from a siren-child blessed by the sea, mean nothing if there is no backing of power.

Mostly, now, the prince sits on the balcony overlooking the gardens and strums his guitar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voices whisper in the nether. Some are alive.

It’s a rare moment, it seems, after months of being hunted, that he can stop and think.

 _The most peace I get is in this hell,_ he laughs to himself, leaning against a burning dirt pillar, or whatever the fleshy, spongey substance of this nether world is.

He has a bag full of potions that maybe work, some bread from a chest, and he’s even spotted a few forests with pigs and mushrooms.

 _I could survive here,_ he thinks.

He could. And he could read the ancient texts by lava-light, craft a fortress that could keep out monsters, and scavenge metals for parts. He could live here, safe from the hunters, far from the overworld. No kingsmen would be willing to enter, and the king had banned and broken all portals over a decade ago. Alone, safe, surviving.

But aimless.

Dream would live. He would live while the last prince was dead.

A terrible trade.

Wilbur had had stories of the nether, when it was quiet and Dream was the only guard nearby. He’d gone there a few times, as a child, and remembered the eerie red haze and the paper dryness on the skin. The sea-blessed prince had admitted that he fared worse in the heat compared to others more naturally suited.

 _Our general was blessed there,_ the prince said one night, limbs loose with wine, staring at nothing with dark sea-eyes. _In that hellscape. Now, his blessing—his blessing_ was _a blood ritual. It fulfilled all of the stereotypes of the Touched. Painting a child with the blood of creatures, taking some blood from his fingertips..._

_He was our general, but he was our brother, practically. Odd mix of uncle and brother and general. Untouchable. No living thing could beat him in a fair or unfair fight. No living, sentient thing I should say. The Rot spread from the portals…and he went to stop it as a child of the nether…_

_And this bastard of a king knew he couldn’t kill our Blade, so he trapped him in the nether instead, destroying the portals. I know he escaped somehow. He must have. But whenever he did…he got out too late. Everything gone. The kingdom, fallen. And I, a pretty siren in a cage._

Even drunk, Wilbur had had a way with words. Between his spells of melancholy and mania.

Dream looks around the landscape.

The Rot is here; Dream can see it. There are corpses in the distance—docile, but mobile nonetheless—and wailing spirits echo through the canyons. When the sands blow across the wastes, they whisper like souls of the dead.

 _The Rot spread from the nether,_ Wilbur had explained. No one knew how it originated or where, but it corrupted the dead and spread further under cover of night. It animated skeletons and corpses who hungered for the living. It made people hysterical, blaming the blessed and siding with the king.

Could these ruins explain what the Rot was? Were there answers within the old texts?

Dream stops walking for a second as the thought stuns him.

It—if he found something, any, information on the source of the Rot, he could find where it came from and put an end to it.

 _You could find more ruins,_ he says to himself, _which would have more books, probably, and more ancient knowledge like the potions._

He owes it to the prince. His mistakes had led to Wilbur’s death, and the kingdom would be ruled by the madman. A sadistic madman.

Finding a small, hidden alcove, Dream flips open the potion book and quickly scans it. Most of the runes are gibberish, but occasionally he can decipher some. More importantly, the book has detailed illustrations. 

One shows a floating eye.

He scoops out the jar with the eye in it. The eyeball stares back at him. 

_Hello,_ Dream mouths, and looks back to the book. The few syllables he can make out are ‘direc’ which he assumes is ‘direction’, and ‘mix.’

He takes one of the blaze rods and carefully crushes a portion. The orange dust slips into the eye-vial easily, turning the contents a vivid purple-green and bloating the iris.

 _I really hope I’m doing this right._ He unscrews the vial. The eye floats to the surface, not rising any further. _Oh no._ He sticks his fingers in to grab the slimy, engorged eye. _Oh, ew._

Once exposed to air, the eye floats in spastic circles, jittering uncontrollably. It floats back down to the ground, and Dream catches it in the vial.

 _What does that mean?_ Dream checks the book. It’s still gibberish.

The picture, however, has a few blades of grass sketched underneath the floating eye. There is, of course, no grass in hell, so it must be the overworld. The floating eye should point to an important direction in the overworld.

Which means that Dream has to go back to the portal where the hunters are camped, slip through undetected, throw the eye and follow it to an unknown location which may, perhaps, have more ancient knowledge. 

Dream sighs.

***

As he walks through the bastion once more, he feels the eyes on him again. Sand blows, hot and dry, over the dark stone. It sounds like whispers from the corners.

It’s there he’s attacked between the pillars.

There’s no time to gasp—a blur, an impression of weight and strength, and an axe cleaves down through the sky where he just stood.

Dream rolls upright quickly, drawing the sword.

The attacker has long hair, piercing eyes, and a fur trim. He eyes Dream calmly. 

Dream cautiously holds up one hand for peace. The other holds the iron sword.

His opponent huffs through his nose and surges forward.

It becomes quickly apparent that this opponent is on Dream’s level of combat. Dream may be a bit faster, but each hit the opponent throws has more power behind it, jarring his arm with each hit.

 _Sturdy,_ Dream notes, as he kicks at the man’s thigh and the other doesn’t fall back. _Observant,_ he notes, as his feint fails. Dream’s been trained to kill for years. In a one-on-one fight with weaponry it’s never been this hard.

Dream manages to pivot the fight so his back is where he wants to go. A small reprieve in the onslaught lets him jump from a broken black pillar to a complete one. 

The long-haired man eyes him, pulling out a crossbow. Dream tenses, but the man doesn’t load it.

“I’ve been watchin’. It’s not every day someone opens a portal,” the man says.

Dream gestures, questioning. _Who are you?_

“I’ve been watchin’,” the man repeats. “The hunters were talkin’ about you. They’re waitin’ for you outside your portal. Now what did you do for them to come after you.”

Silence. Dream adjusts his heel on the pillar.

“Nah, I know already.” The man pulls out a bottle and drinks it quickly. He tosses it to the side, the glass rolling without breaking. “’cause I’ve been huntin’ you too.”

The bottle must have been a potion, because the man practically _flies_ to Dream, his speed knocking Dream from his perch. The man tries to grapple him, but Dream is flexible, lithe, squirming out of his grip and spinning away. The golden bracers from the ruined portal come in useful, giving weight to his blocks and landing a solid hit to the other’s arm.

No words are exchanged, no time lapses—the long-haired man lunges at him once more.

The potion is too much. He’s so fast. Dream can see where this fight is going.

Using his peripherals, he searches for any kind of escape route, but there’s only lava and blackstone walls. He’ll have to fight.

Dream sees an opportunity, ducking beneath the other’s swing, and takes him to the ground in a tight hold—but the other man is larger, stronger, and easily flips him. His mask cracks. The man’s forearm presses against his throat; his long hair falls into Dream’s face.

Dream chokes, clawing at his neck reflexively. His hold loosens and he loses all leverage.

The other man stares down with blood-red eyes as Dream struggles.

“See, I know you worked for the king as a high guard,” the other man says casually, like they’re in the middle of a conversation, “so you’ve had your hands dirty plenty of times before. It’s definitely in-character for Thorn to have you kill Wilbur then toss you to the wolves. Or maybe you _were_ just a bigot, and you wanted the last of the Touched royalty dead.”

He _wasn’t,_ he didn’t mean to—he never meant for Wilbur to be hurt, but that doesn’t matter now— 

“Phil would want me to avenge his kid.” The man tips his head to the side as if listening. “No. No, he could be useful. For now. It’s all about what’s most effective.”

Once Dream’s weak enough from lack of oxygen, the man uses one hand to skillfully tie Dream’s hands together.

He releases his grip, and Dream gasps silently. The man stays crouched beside him, watching him as he regains his breath.

“That’s a silencin’ brand on your face. Now, see, if they put a silencing brand on you, then that means that they wanted to keep you quiet. And why would they—the king—want to keep you quiet?”

Dream pushes himself backward to the wall. He’s so sick of this. Being hunted, being interrogated. But this, at least, is a question no one’s asked him before.

Maybe he can try again.

 _Feint,_ he signs using hunting signals. _Deception._

The other man blinks slowly.

 _Enemy,_ he signs.

“So there’s some kind of deception involved. It’s a conspiracy. And the king’s behind it all. Which isn’t a surprise…” The man mutters a few other thoughts aloud.

Dream takes the moment to study his opponent. He’s never been on the same level as another warrior; though he’d been outmatched in gear and potions, he knows on a deeper level they have similar levels of skill. A thought occurs to him.

 _Weapon,_ Dream signs, then points to the other. _Weapon?_ he repeats when the man stares at him.

“I’m not gettin’ it.”

Dream points deliberately to his iron sword on the ground, and then to the man. _Sword?_

“Yeah, no. No weapons for you.”

Dream rolls his eyes, which is luckily covered by his mask. The other somehow still notices and snorts softly.

The man abruptly bolts upright, squinting into the nether-mist. “Yeah, I hear ‘em,” he murmurs to himself, pulling out his crossbow. The dry winds pick up his fur trim, whispering around his head.

“Oh hello!” bursts a cheery voice.

The long-haired man lowers his crossbow, huffing. “You came alone? In the nether?”

“I wasn’t worried.” From the nether-mist emerges the hooded hunter. His face is cast in deeper shadow in the hellish light, and his eyes glitter oddly from the drawn hood. “I didn’t realize you got sent after him too.”

Dream’s stomach sinks. Now it’s two against one. His chances have just plummeted.

The hunter, Bad, surveys him. A checkered cloth covers most of his face, and a low hood covers the rest.

“You guys are late,” the long-haired man says, “Took too long, so I decided to step in.”

“Hey, now. Impatient. We’ve only taken a few weeks longer than expected, Te—uh, technically.” 

“Nice save.”

“Oh hush.” Bad walks with an easy grace, easily avoiding the treacherous drops in the bastion.

“I also heard you’ve got some help.” 

“Yeah, George and Sapnap are great.”

“But do they have enough _ties_ to the organization?”

“They’re not, you know—they’re _great,_ and you can’t just say things like that—”

“It’s about trust. If they don’t have real stakes then they could turn.” The man’s voice is monotone.

“They’ve literally already proven themselves,” Bad says exasperatedly, then gestures deliberately in Dream’s direction. “And I don’t think we should be talking about this right here.”

The other man shrugs, and they move a modest distance away. But Dream’s hearing has always been keen, and he can still see their mouths and lip-read. Their body language is odd. It’s not the dynamic of two bounty hunters haggling over a steal.

“We’re taking him back to the king. You know why.” Bad proffers the enchanted compass, then snaps it shut.

“Yeah. We’re changin’ that plan. He’s got a brand on his face put there by Thorn. Tyrant’s definitely got somethin’ to hide, and I want to know what it is.” 

“Okay, I get that, good point, but the plan for literally months has been to take him to the castle. We’ll get to go to the inner citadel and see the layout.”

Dream’s mind is fuzzy, and it’s difficult to concentrate on their mouths. He can’t listen anymore. The inner citadel—the king—the cells—that table—he never wants to think about them again. His heart begins to beat an escape through his chest as he looks around for one of his own.

He can’t fight. He’s still dizzy.

There’s no sky here, but if he concentrates, maybe…

“He’s got a silencin’ brand on him put there by king crazy. He knows somethin’ we probably want to know.”

“Well…You can come with us for a bit. See what he knows before we deliver him.”

Dream grabs his panic with both hands and wrenches. His core goes cold.

He’s falling—

Panic bubbles in his throat—

He’s over lava—

There’s a sucking sensation in his chest, and he’s slamming into the ground. That’s two teleportations, and Dream turns his head to the side and hacks bile.

There’s a shout behind him, echoing over the lava lake. Arms shaking, Dream scrambles upright and tries to make more distance between himself and the hunters. As he is, he can’t take another round with the warrior. 

When he ascends a cliff far, far away and drags himself onto the fleshy ground, he breathes deeply and looks back. Through the smoke, he thinks he can see two silhouettes in the distance still staring.

* * *

_Before_

* * *

Dream hears the clinking of the armor and steady steps before he sees them.

“Guards are coming,” he murmurs quietly, and Wilbur startles, nearly dropping his book.

“You can hear them?” he asks, and then, “Oh, _End_. Well, let’s sit pretty and get ready for the show.”

Dream had known _in theory_ that guarding Wilbur at the castle would mean he had a good chance of seeing the king, but it was still something of a surprise when the king came to Wilbur’s tower.

Orias Thorn is solid where Wilbur is thin, sturdy where Wilbur is slender. Their heights match, but Thorn fills the room, and his eyes are smoldering black fire. Several castle guards take position just outside of the room. Dream’s already perfect posture straightens.

“Hello, Thorn,” Wilbur says pleasantly. He sets down his book and carefully marks the page, then, finally, makes eye contact. “How are you?” 

“Wilbur,” the king rumbles, something deep and slow-burning in his voice. “You know why I’m here.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Wilbur says, still sitting. “Was there something you needed? Can I offer any advice?”

It’s etiquette to stand when a superior enters, but Wilbur hasn’t moved. The king grabs Wilbur’s wrist with a large hand and drags the prince upright.

Dream flinches at the sudden movement, but though his duty is to protect Wilbur, he can’t do anything. The king jerks his head at Dream, who is standing properly beside the open balcony.

“You’re dismissed,” the king says curtly. 

“Go on, now,” Wilbur says smoothly before Dream hesitates too long. “The king is guard enough to watch me.” 

There’s a sick feeling in his gut, but he must obey the sovereign. With a quick, small bow, he exits via the balcony.

He’s at a loss at what to do. He has a few more hours in his shift.

***

Maybe it’s his relentless charm, his siren-voice, but Dream feels like Wilbur could be something akin to a friend.

He’s had friends before, of course—other guards, some kind soldiers at the camps—but it feels a bit different. There’s a strange understanding in Wilbur’s eyes when he watches Dream and pays attention to Dream’s few words. There’s a strange peace when Wilbur plays guitar on the balcony, something unfamiliar to Dream amid his violent life.

***

An hour later, Dream returns to the balcony. Cautiously approaching, keeping out of sight, he listens for voices. There’s silence. No other guard has come to take his shift.

Dream slips inside. Wilbur startles.

“Oh, you’re back,” he says.

There’s a fresh bruise on his face, ringing his brow bone. Dream stares.

“’Why’d he do this?’ you’re wondering,” Wilbur says, touching the swollen area. Dream looks for a cloth and cold water. “Oh. He thinks I’m being a bit too…proactive, shall we say, and we had a disagreement. I’ve been sending letters, suggesting policies, that sort of thing. L’Man and Berg are united now, but there’s quite a few conflicting policies between cities now that everything’s merged, and I do think in many cases the L’Man policies would function better—Are you from L’Man or Berg, by the way?”

The only memory he has is of wheat in his arms and a woman’s voice, and _wheat_ and a woman certainly didn’t narrow the location down. “I don’t—I’m not sure. Not sure where I was born.”

“I guess that’s a vague question; I should say, apart from your birthplace, where did you grow up?”

“I don’t know.” Knowing that answer was lacking to give a superior, Dream offers, “I ran messages during the civil war.”

“‘Civil war,’” Wilbur mutters, taking the cool, wet cloth Dream hands him, then louder: “Well, I suppose it’s an obsolete question at this point; we’re all L’Manberg now. It shouldn’t really matter.”

Dream thinks back to muddy camps and cold nights and soldiers who gave him food for messages. He’s certain the messages were between Bergian forces, but to a hungry child, it didn’t matter which nation was invading.

“It doesn’t matter,” he echoes.

***

The next time the king visits is far worse.

Wilbur barely manages a word before the king’s crossed the room and grabbed him.

“Dismissed,” the king growls.

Dream hesitates enough that the king notices.

“I told your pet project to _leave.”_

Sudden fear flickers on Wilbur’s face, then extinguishes itself smoothly. “They’re men, not dogs.” He does not look in Dream’s direction.

Dream leaves.

Almost as soon as he’s through the balcony, he hears a blow. He grits his teeth. _The one person in the castle—the city—I can’t protect him from,_ he thinks.

***

Wilbur’s cleaned himself up a little by the time Dream dares to come back.

“There’s a resistance somewhere,” Wilbur tells him, resting his head on his desk, “and since he can’t find them, he comes to _talk_ to me. The doors are locked for the foreseeable future, so you’ll have to enter through the balcony or be let in, I’m afraid.”

Swiftly crossing the room, Dream carefully begins to examine the prince for injuries. There’s still a bit of blood in his hair, and Dream carefully moves Wilbur’s hair to examine his scalp. There’s a cut there. Dream remembers the king was wearing rings.

“Can you breathe deep?” Dream asks.

Wilbur does, and it exits as a shuddering sigh. No cracked ribs, then. Dream moves on to examine the prince’s bruised wrists to see if they’re sprained or broken.

“He wants control. He loves control,” Wilbur mumbles while Dream works. “I’m an exile in my own land, Dream. You know he killed my family? He’s told me. Many times. Hacked off one my father’s wings, stabbed him through. Mum and Tubbo ambushed in a fight. And I’m here, _scared of him,_ staying in this tower like a coward. What a coward. When have my words done _any_ good? How can I justify living while so many others—?”

Dream carefully settles one gloved hand on Wilbur’s back. He has no idea how to comfort someone. The contact seems to be grounding. 

“We’re alike, aren’t we?” Wilbur says softly, eventually, voice much calmer. “Both touched by powers we can’t understand. Both subject to the same king and bereft of family thanks to this bloody war.”

It’s getting too deep. Dream stands, pours a glass of water, and offers it. “Take some blue?”

Wilbur laughs a little, and does.

When the glass is drained, sudden manic energy seems to light him up. Wilbur grabs paper and writes furiously, slashing out a letter. When the violent work is done, he carefully folds the paper and binds it. In the front knot, he twines in a small flower. 

“Dream,” Wilbur says quietly. “I’m going to make the incredibly stupid decision to trust you. Take this. Please. Go to the furthest bakery to the west. Niki can send it. Tell her I send my love. Don’t show anyone. It’s—it’s a private matter. Please.”

Dream nods. He can do stealth.

“Thank you, my friend,” Wilbur says. “Be careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do appreciate all of the kind notes, whether it's a <3 or a paragraph. Thanks for making my day.


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